


The Fortress That Walks

by Nosferatank



Category: Fire Emblem Echoes: Mou Hitori no Eiyuu Ou | Fire Emblem Echoes: Shadows of Valentia, Fire Emblem Series
Genre: Gen, POV Outsider, POV Second Person, POV is not a fan of Mycen, Patricide, Valentian vs Rigelian culture, Worldbuilding, because its fire emblem so of course, no beta we die like Glenn, other characters such as rudolf have brief speaking roles but are not tagged
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-16
Updated: 2020-06-16
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:15:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24748207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nosferatank/pseuds/Nosferatank
Summary: You signed up for the Deliverance because you'd rather take your chances on the battlefield than on whatever ruin Desaix was steering the country towards, leaving your wife and teenage son behind.The Deliverance drives Rigel up past the border. You keep going north. You're watching history.
Relationships: Alm & Responsible Adult Figures
Comments: 16
Kudos: 28





	The Fortress That Walks

**Author's Note:**

> Ehhhhhh this came out a lil awkward since I’m not familiar with 2nd person or present tense like, at all, but it does the job! There’s a lot of fun opportunities for worldbuilding in Valentia, and yall already know how much I love outside pov from your average citizens among whatever clusterfuck is happening in a fire emblem game.
> 
> I’d always figured way before fe16 introduced battalions that player units were functioning less as individual fighters and more as unit leaders. And hey, the battalion mooks are people too! Thus this fic and the POV.

When you first joined the Deliverance, you hadn’t realized how much of war was just _waiting_. Waiting for supplies. Waiting for messages. Waiting for enemy movements. Waiting for casualty reports. Waiting for reinforcements that oftentimes would never come.

Of course, you’d take the waiting over constant combat. Makes it easier to keep your promise to your wife, with the kid and your tore-up farm. Though you were the one who joined up with the resistance on the promise of coin, Apolonia is the most vicious fighter between the two of you. Which is why she’s staying behind, no doubt piling up the bodies of desperate bandits or press-gangers from either military. You both agreed your child is far more valuable than your lives or your payment, after all. 

Manning the Deliverance Hideout isn’t all that bad a gig, in all honesty. The Mila Shrine shelters the depths of the cavern system from damp and cold, and the Terrors occasionally seen walking about served to deter Desaix’s men from investigating- though you still had to haul a puffed-up newbie away from playing chicken with the Bonewalkers, sometimes. 

At the sound of footsteps by the entrance to the Mila Shrine, you shift your feet and shove yourself off the wall you’d been leaning against. You aren’t the only one who looks to the door, as Sir Clive and a few other soldiers are milling about, waiting for the apparent reinforcements. These reinforcements wouldn’t include the knight-general Sir Lukas had been sent to find, but you have to wonder what far corner of Zofia Lukas managed to pull more able fighters from. 

What you see… disappoints you. Oh, they look like fine enough lads, with the easy gait of people used to hard work and familiar with weapons. But you doubt all of them are actually over eighteen summers old- the age requirement to sign up with the Zofian military. 

Or at least, it _was_ the age requirement. Technically the Deliverance is a rebel faction that is no longer beholden to the commands from the castle, but it still bothers you no matter how desperate you are. Your own son is only sixteen, after all. 

Still, you say nothing as introductions are made. You’re far from the only one listening in on the higher-ups and the newbies, but you’re slightly less obvious about it. They’re so very eager to prove themselves. It’d be a more encouraging sentiment if you weren't painfully aware of casualty rates in the Deliverance. Those losses had diminished rapidly after the resistance transitioned from open warfare to raids and guerilla fights, but they still left a vast stain upon the Deliverance.

Your not-so-subtle eavesdropping becomes far more obvious as you choke on your own spit in shock, because Sir Clive wanted one of the boys- Sir Mycen’s grandson- as the Deliverance leader. 

You’d almost agree with Lord Fernand’s shock, if you didn’t already know his reasons for rejecting the proposal were entirely wrong ones. 

As Sir Clive’s reasoning continued, you narrow your eyes thoughtfully at the implications. Putting forth a young spitfire, common-born and trained by a general who emerged from similar common roots, as a banner for the vast amount of smallfolk to rally under. 

A figurehead, then. A morale point, rather than a true commander. Optimistically, you hope after a probationary period, he’ll grow into a leadership role and hold some form of true power among the nobles; any leg-up you smallfolk could get among the nobility opened possibilities for more common-born leaders. 

Realistically, you think he would remain a figurehead; perhaps even made into a martyr who died too young on the battlefield for the sake of Zofia and her true leaders. You may not be truly literate, but you’re not _stupid_. You know how this goes.

The subsequent fight between Sirs Clive and Fernand was startling, and swift, but since nobody got stabbed, you consider it mild enough not to worry too much about. You can’t help but raise a brow at some of Fernand’s shouted grievances. That kind of talk would get him stuck with no backup on the battlefield. Frankly, with how you’ve seen him treat the lowborn soldiers, _you_ certainly wouldn’t nock an arrow to shoot his enemy.

After Fernand storms off, Lukas looks towards the gaggle of gawking soldiers, an edge of warning evident in his carefully placid expression. His eyes land on you, and you straighten.

“Corporal, would you please show our newcomers to an available space at the camp?”

You’d, admittedly, forgotten you actually hold a rank- it’s not like it mattered much, but hey, maybe it’ll still hold weight if you win. You press a fist to your heart in salute- you actually respect Lukas, he’s a sharp man- and gesture for the kids to follow you. 

One of them mutters about how for all they know about this place, they might be sharing a coffin with a Revenant. The accompanying dull smack and indignant yelp make you roll your eyes. _Teenagers_. 

The Mila Shrine has multiple branching paths, and the one you’re on leads to the actual temple to Mila, with a large open space and vaulted ceilings disappearing into the cavernous darkness. Scattered campfires light packs and bedrolls and faces, and the expressions of your squad light up in recognition.

“Hey, Cato! Fresh meat for the front lines?” One of them says, uncaring of the gruesome fate he was insinuating. 

“Sure, that’s one way of putting it,” You remark, yanking up your bedroll and dropping your rear onto it, patting the padded space beside you. “Take a seat, folks. Mess’ll serve dinner in about an hour, and I’m sure you’re wondering how this joint is run.”

Hesitantly, each of the four boys sits. Their appearances, lit by fire, cause one of your squadmates to release a low whistle. “Damn, are they sending us kids now? Didn’t know we were _that_ desperate.”

The lad in green bristles. “Hey, I’m old enough to join up, I’ll have you know.”

“And are the rest of you?” You drawl, and their silence is answer enough. You withhold the deep sigh brewing in your chest, and instead focus on what will _really_ affect their performance. “Are you at least blooded? We can’t have you freezing up mid-battle, you’ll get people killed.” 

Their confusion is evident, and you remember that it was _definitely_ not a Zofian term you just used. “Have you killed before.” You clarify. “Humans, not animals.”

It’s the one who Sir Clive wanted to make commander- Alm- who answers first. “Yes. On the way here. Bandits are everywhere now, y’know?”

And you did know. Which didn’t stop it from being uncomfortable, still. It was one thing for your wife to insist your teenage son have his First Blood on a solo hunt tracking some sort of predatory animal- a Rigelian custom. It was another for a youngster to slay a human. Deliberately, without hesitation. Not many could do it. 

_What a wretched world we live in_ , You think. _That our children have to fight our battles and raise our banners for us_.

You decide to keep an eye on the four. You don’t think you could look Apolonia or your son in the eye when you came home, otherwise.

\--

Perched atop a newly-captured balustrade, arrow pointing at the courtyard and providing cover fire for the central battalion, you figure you might have been fretting over the youngsters a little too much. At least, fretting too much in terms of their physical capability. You’d gotten to know them well while they were attached to your squad as newbies, and they’d clearly all been trained, and trained for quite some time- an odd thing, considering their background as sheep farmers.

And Alm, well… you could see, grudgingly, why Sir Clive had made him a strong morale point for the Deliverance. He moved like someone who knew precisely how deadly they were; someone who knew if they were going to take a life, it would be deliberate. War was in his blood the same way it was in your wife’s, or your son’s.

Your arrow pierces through the neck of a Paladin’s horse, and the snarling Slayde is quickly dispatched by a steel sword, his blood seeping into the stones and mingling with that of his dead horse. 

Alm looks from the arrow sprouting from the mount’s body, traces the arrow’s path, and looks up at you. You can’t help it. You wave at him. He waves back, looking sheepish. You probably shouldn’t be thinking a teenager with someone else’s blood seeping into his clothes and his hair qualifies as ‘cute’, but the image brings to mind your son Griff back from his First Blood, fresh wolf pelt in his bloodstained hands and grinning even as your wife scolds him for bringing it inside.

It’s less cute when Alm ends up practically declaring war on Rigel. You are very close to sticking your head into one of the ludicrously expensive urns and _screaming_.

\--

You can acutely tell you’ve crossed into Rigel the moment the cold hits, Mila’s warmth and protection remaining sunk into the stone of Zofia behind you- you are in Duma’s realm now. The discomfort sweeps across the army as they cross the border, and though you’re less dramatic about it than young Gray, you still can’t repress the shiver. 

Making camp is a relief, though not a single one of you dare shed any layers to relax after setting up camp, not in this weather. 

Well, except Alm. It’s frankly unfair, how the lad is perfectly comfortable in just his trousers and gambeson, completely unbitten by the cold. 

“Oi, Alm, get over here by the fire. I’m getting cold just looking at you,” Gray calls out to his friend, sticking his bare hands close enough to the fire that you worry he might toast his fingers. 

Alm flops down comfortably, elbowing Gray’s side. “Well, this is revenge for when y'all had no mercy on me while I was dying in summer.”

“And you still wonder why we hypothesized you were some kind of cold-blooded Rigelian beastie,” Kliff mutters, huddling over his tin cup of watery tea and looking distinctly displeased.

“I mean, I still feel the cold,” Alm counters, poking at the roaring campfire with a stick. “It just feels, I dunno, familiar? Safe.”

Tobin’s dubious expression says everything he was thinking without words. “We’re in Rigel, and you feel _safe_? Do I need to go get a cleric to check your head?”

“No, no, it’s just-” Alm waves his hands about in an incomprehensible gesture, attempting to convey what words would not. “-It’s weird. I can’t really describe it.”

Carefully, you think about how he looks a bit different compared to his friends- the color of his hair, his build, the slant of his eyes- and you think about the “Archanean” immigrants you’ve met who are clearly from Rigel in actuality, like how your wife crossed the border with her son to escape… something, probably famine. Or at least you think it was famine. And you wonder about the truth of their friendly mockery. 

“Have you considered,” You start slowly, turning the words over in your mind. “That you may have been born in Rigel?” You continue past the sputtering. “You’ve never mentioned parents in all your talk about family back where you came from.”

Kliff’s accusatory stare would be more intimidating if it weren’t coming from a kid who’d only seen fifteen summers. “And what makes you think that?”

You shrug. “C’mon, kid, you definitely have the look of a Northerner to ya. And it’d make sense since this place feels familiar to you- Duma stakes his claim on the people who are born here, same as Lady Mila stakes hers on folks born back home.”

“How do you even know all this?” Kliff continues, narrowing his eyes. “Are you from Rigel?” 

Choosing to ignore the implied allegation, you casually wave him off. Suspicious kid, that one. “Nah, my wife and son are from here, though. I learned a lot about Rigel while she was parsing through how to blend in among Zofians.”

“Well,” Alm mutters. “It’s just one _more_ thing to ask my Grandpa. If he’ll even answer…”

Well, he seems steady, though he still can’t hide his distress at the prospect you’d put forth. If he’s still feeling so anxious about it after this war- if you survive, that is- and you can manage to wrestle him away from Sir Clive for a while, you resolve to sit him down with Apolonia; she’d set him straight. It really was almost impressive, in a frustrating way, how much misinformation and outright fearmongering both Valentian countries spread about their respective neighbors.

“Hey, it’s not that big a deal,” You reassure. “It’s not like you’re gonna be in a noble enough position for people to gripe about a Rigelian holding high office.”

Alm shuffles in place, awkwardly poking at the fire. “Uh, actually…” He trails off. 

“If you won't tell them, I will.” Kliff interjects, before turning to face you from across the fire. “Sir Clive has been grooming him for the position of heir to Zofia’s throne, since all of Lady Mila’s lineage are dead.”

Dead silence. You whip your head around to stare at the teenager in question, and there is not a trace of humor on his face. Wordlessly, you turn around, dig through your bag for the coveted flask, and drain it all in one go, coughing as the fire runs down your throat. You point the empty flask at Alm, saying “Kid, I’m not saying you wouldn’t be a good king, but you’re seventeen. And the Zofian court would eat you alive; a bucket of leeches, that place is.”

Without looking away, you stuff your empty flask back in the pack. “You’d practically need a battalion of loyal advisors and competent knights. You think it was a coincidence King Lima wasted away in a time of plenty?”

“Even so,” Alm challenges, lifting his eyes from the fire with determination. “If I can help people, and this is the way to do it… it’s a danger I can deal with.”

Somewhat mockingly, you raise your hands in surrender. “Hey, I ain’t saying you’re incapable. I’m just telling you to be _careful_. Get guards and advisors you can trust. Probably oughta pull from all kinds of people- commoners, knights, nobles. Lots of perspective, yeah?”

An arch brow from Kliff once again. “That’s a pretty different perspective on government for a Zofian cattle farmer.”

“Don’t you know? Parents know everything- of course I’m right.”

He snorts and rolls his eyes at you, which you count as a victory. 

“Really though,” You continue, thinking back to numerous conversations over the last two decades, both with Zofians and Rigelians. “Lots of people have ideas the nobles ain’t fond of, and if you know where to look, you can hear them.”

“I mean, it can’t be that hard to hear things the nobles don’t like, yeah?” Alm replies, somewhat cheekily. “From my experience, they’ll complain about anything, really.”

The crackle of the campfire couldn’t drown out the chorus of guffaws and the mocking imitation of Fernand by Tobin. 

\--

Rigel’s emperor leads his army from the front, an implacable mountain in red. It’s all you can do to keep track of the very real and distressingly close imperial threat as you take aim at a Rigelian Cantor from the back of your horse. 

Said threat raises his hand, and the cavalry behind him falls back like wheat bowing away in the wind. He dismounts, his approach smooth and slow as a gathering storm. It’s easy to see why ‘The Fortress That Walks’ is a title attached to Rigel’s rulers, with a presence like _that_.

“Alm from Ram,” He booms. “As we share the sun and the earth, do you accept my challenge beneath Duma’s eye?”

 _Oh dear Mila_.

You wheel your horse around and holler at the unit to _get back!_ , giving the two combatants space. Sir Clive then nearly rams his horse into yours.

“What are you doing?” He demands, visible confusion and anger plain on his usually affable expression. 

“Sir!” You acknowledge, snapping a salute across your chest with the hand not handling the reins. “We’re in _Rigel_ , sir. They worship a war god!”

He sucks in a breath instantly. Good, you don’t need to explain further. “Ritual combat. That’s why his troops aren’t attacking.” He turns to pass the command to hold their fire, and though the air of tension is palpable, not a single arrow is fired at the pair. To interrupt a formal duel in Rigel was to be gods-cursed- if an honorable combatant died due to interruption from the other party, then it would be up to their community to exact vendetta on the cheating party.

Which means if the Deliverance stepped into this fight and Emperor Rudolf perished, then every man and woman in Rigel would be after Alm’s head for the rest of his life. 

So the leather in your hands creaks as you watch a teenager face off against a fighter skilled enough to be crowned emperor out of all his siblings. 

Except… something is odd. Aside from a frontal shield bash, the emperor hasn’t touched Alm once. Perhaps it is just age, but Rudolf’s swings are tightly controlled, striking against Alm’s blade with force that would have thrown the lad aside like a straw puppet if his full strength was used.

Rudolf’s swing is over-telegraphed, and it’s the last move he makes as Alm drives his sword into the unarmored underarm. The Royal Sword is too deeply embedded in the man for Alm to pull it out, so the emperor takes it with him.

With blood from his lungs already seeping from his mouth and staining his beard, Emperor Rudolf opens his mouth, and what he says makes your heart turn to molten lead. Makes Alm fall to his knees and scream like the world is crushing him. 

After all, there are few people more cursed in Valentia than those who slay their own kin.

 _Enough of this_ , you think, dismounting and striding over to Alm as the lad’s friends flock to him. He’s your unit leader, but he’s also an extremely distressed kid. 

It’s a testament of constant living and fighting in close quarters that Tobin allows you to nudge your way up and crouch by Alm’s side. Gently gripping the back of his neck to ground him. “Acknowledge their surrender.” You whisper in his ear as you watch the Rigelian guard sheath their weapons and lift their faceplates. 

Voice thick like congealing blood, he looks up and says “I accept your surrender.”

Sir Clive’s horse casts you in shadow as he trots up and puts himself between Alm and the Rigelian troops. “Please, take your emperor and do what rites you must to put him to rest. We needn’t curse this battlefield more by keeping the gods’ bloodline unconsecrated.” Alm sucks in a shuddering breath at that, and the tiny vanguard of villagers tightens around him defensively. “As the victorious party, we request quarter in Rigel Castle as we discuss terms.” Clive continues, voice steady.

They open the castle doors for the Deliverance. After all, who would refuse the emperor entry?

\--

In the period of time during the negotiations and the preparations to go beneath the castle (to fight _Duma_ , sweet earth and sky), you are familiarized with the castle’s flow. Generally, guards are the same anywhere. All of you are tired, all of you are worried, and all of you anxiously bored respite the neverending preparations to be made. 

They get along better with you and your fellow soldiers far more than with their own prince- emperor? He hadn't been crowned yet- at least as a working relationship. Tense, but with a sense of understanding. 

Not so with Alm. The first guard to welcome him into the castle had been visibly terrified, even as he pledged himself to the rising emperor’s long rule. And it was far from the only reaction like that Alm had gotten. He just… took it, moving about the castle like a silent ghost, only his uneven footsteps betraying who he was. 

(Uneven, because after so long living with a sword at his side, the lack of it threw him off balance. After the Royal Sword was cleaned of his father’s blood and returned to him, Alm refused to touch it, instead leaving it in his quarters.)

At least the Rigel soldiers seem to like you after you offer to help out with a search- apparently, Prince Berkut has been missing ever since the old emperor dismissed him, and it’s been near a full night since then. 

While you're poking around the basements for any trace of the princeling, you hear the faint whisper of stone on leather soles, and a familiar voice echoing through the cellars. You follow the wisps of sound, the tunnel becoming wider and smoother until there is a soaring door carved in swirling patterns at the end of it. And in front of the door, two figures: one taller and grey, wearing his armor like he was born in it, and the other shorter and in blue with Duma-green hair. 

And the more you hear, the more you poke out your head to listen more, and the angrier you get. Sir Mycen knew about all this? _That_ was what all the cryptic nonsense was about? There was no reason for Mycen to keep this information from Alm for this long, not unless he thought the boy was a thundering fool.

The shout of “And what of my peace?!” sends you scrambling to press your back into a wall, hiding your face from what is probably a private conversation. 

“This is not the time for mourning or self-pity, boy.” Mycen says levelly, like Alm was simply overreacting. You can’t help but scowl, because who the hell tells their teenage grandson not to mourn his father? The curse of a kinslayer would follow Alm for the rest of his _life-_ he was right to ask about his peace, because there would likely be none after that deed was done. 

You jerk away from the wall and storm down the hall. You know where the wine cellars are now, as you passed by them in your search. You want to take the edge off your disgust at this whole situation- it’s not like you’d be the first soldier in this castle to sneak some out. 

\--

Your brain feels like it’s been raked over rocks, your mouth dry and wine-sour, when a knight looms over your perch on a barrel as you continue to whittle a lopsided Mila idol from a broken-off plank of a wine keg. 

“Now, soldier, what exactly are you doing _loitering_ in the wine cellar?”

You raise your eyes in challenge at the intruder, and something alights in your gut when you identify them.

“ _You_.” You hiss venomously.

An arched grey brow. “Me?”

“Yes, you.” You jab your whittling knife in his direction. “You’re a blasted _idiot_ , you know.”

Mycen’s thunderous expression betrays his offense, but his voice is remarkably calm. “That’s quite the brazen accusation to make towards your superior officer.”

“Yeah, well you’re not in the Deliverance, so I don’t answer to you,” You snort. “And you’re still a fool. You’re gonna put all that shit on a kid’s shoulders and not even bother to support him or _tell him vital information_?”

“And who are you to criticize me? His destiny was marked out for him the moment he was born with the brand on his hand- I could not stop it, only prepare him for it.”

The simmering anger in your chest comes to a boil, and you stab your knife into the wine keg, lest you decide to stab it into the man before you instead. “Seriously? That’s your excuse?! It wasn’t _destiny_ that pushed Alm to unknowingly kill his father, it wasn’t _destiny_ that kept cryptic secrets from your kid! That was _you_ , and the emperor, and taking some damn responsibility like the grown man you are is the least you can do!” Chest heaving and from your tirade, you take some satisfaction in Mycen’s expression- he looks like you slapped him with a shieldfish- and wiggle your knife out of the keg. “I had a more mutually trusting relationship with my son when he was _eleven_. I’m sure the late empress must be churning in her urn, knowing the men her child was left to.”

You don’t bother looking at him anymore- it would just make you angrier. Leaving the unfinished Mila idol behind, you stalk out of the cellar, back up to the castle.

You nearly run into the subject of your explosion at Mycen, and you manage to somewhat-drunkenly skitter off to the side before you collide with each other in the halls. Bless him, he manages to look concerned for you, head tilting to the side like a curious cat’s. Or maybe it’s you who’s tilting. Or the floor. You aren’t sure. 

“Um, Cato? Are you, uh, can you walk?” Alm asks, concern plain in his voice. 

You wave him off. “Nah, I’m fine, just… a little too sober for some shit, y’know?”

His face darkens. “Yeah, I do,” and you wince, knowing the burden on him is much heavier than the weight of simply watching from the outside. 

Sighing, he leans against the cold cobble wall beside you. “You heard us, didn’t you?”

Well, this is somewhat motifying. “Only a little bit. I caught the end of it before I left. And for the record, he was wrong.” Before Alm can open his mouth, you continue. “Purposefully saying he’s keeping huge secrets from you, only to turn around and scold you when those lies cause distress and death? That’s wrong. That’s not how most people raise their kids.”

A sigh from beside you. “It… doesn’t matter. It’s done, and we have way bigger things to worry about now.”

“Yeah, and there’s gonna always be bigger things to worry about, especially if you actually intend to take the throne. Doesn’t mean that nothing else matters.”

Alm looks like he’s swallowed a lemon. “Ugh, don’t remind me about the throne. I don’t even _know_ these people who are supposed to be ‘advising’ me, let alone trust them.”

“So replace them,” you shrug. “It’s something you can do, yeah? There’s Rigelians you know in the army, surely.”

Ponderous silence. “Huh, yeah, that could work,” Alm mutters, chin in his hands with a look of concentration on his face. “Zeke is a respected general, Tatiana is a saint of the clergy, her word would have some weight, and…” his eyes slide towards you. “It’s been a while, but is that invitation to meet your wife still open?”

He thinks he’s being sly, bringing her up like that. It’s almost cute. “Hey, don’t look at me, if you want Apolonia as an advisor, you’re gonna have to ask her yourself.” You ruffle up his hair like you do to your boy back home. “I bet she’ll like you well enough to give it a shot. Although I’d recommend keeping her away from Mycen. She might _actually_ stab him.”

“Wait, hold on a minute, who said anything about stabbing?” Alm freezes while trying in vain to keep his mussed-up hair out of his eyes. “Please don’t tell me you tried to stab my Grandpa.”

You throw up your hands in surrender. “Hey, I kinda wanted to. Never said anything about actually doing it.”

“... Please don’t let your wife stab my Grandpa.”

Eyes askance, you grin. “Kid, if you ever get married to a woman in the future, keep in mind that you never ‘let’ your wife do anything. She does what she wants and you’re just happy to be along for the ride.”

And that brought a stifled snort of laughter forward. That’s good, at least. Lad needs to relax a bit, all that stress can’t be good for his heart.

“... Hey, Cato. Thanks.”

You admittedly aren’t sure what he’s thanking you for exactly, but the sentiment is still there. “Anytime, kid.”

A brief pause before you remember where exactly you are. “Do you happen to know the way out of here?”

“Roughly. I’m sure I can find our way out?” Alm’s response is sheepish, but it’s better than you have. 

As he leads the way up to the surface of the castle, you think he’ll make a decent leader. A young lord, with idealism and understanding. Though the world certainly hasn’t been, you pray history, at least, will be kind to him. 

**Author's Note:**

> Cato is a natural mother-henner who is also experiencing some empty nest syndrome. As soon as a flock of teenagers the same age as their son showed up they called dibs.
> 
> I moved around some of the Mycen convos, so a few of the things said in his throne room convo are now in the god basement. Also I padded out the time between taking Rigel Castle and going into Duma Temple. There’s a lot of shit that needed to be sorted out, and Duma isn’t going anywhere. A side-effect of this is Berkut being missing for longer in the vast mazelike catacombs of the Temple. Makes losing his marbles a bit more reasonable.
> 
> Many thanks to the people who listened to me as i blah-ed out some stuff about Valnetia worldbuilding. Please comment! 
> 
> No seriously. Please.


End file.
